


Never drew the line

by la_dissonance



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Pre-Movie(s), Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_dissonance/pseuds/la_dissonance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They sleep on opposite sides of the fire now, but sound still carries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never drew the line

**Author's Note:**

> The working title was "dem leggings tho", which probably tells you everything you need to know. Title is from [Baby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AedHv7geXcU) by Warpaint.

Gretel loves her leggings. If she were put at gunpoint and forced to name the one thing she loved most in the world she'd say Hansel, of course, and if she was asked for two things she'd say Hansel and her crossbow, but the leggings would easily make it into the top three. She hadn't always worn leggings. At first she'd just worn what she wore when they killed that first witch — knee length dress, boots, stockings. She hadn't quite outgrown her second dress before it started making her feel childish, but as many times as Hansel grumbled at her to get her own, he never stopped her from borrowing his trousers and shirts. 

Eventually she did buy her own, after they'd been paid by two villages to burn the same witch and had silver to spare, but it was more trouble than it was worth to pack separate bags and keep track of whose clothes were whose. Gretel went through another growth spurt and purchased a couple tight vests to wear under her shirts, and for a time Hansel would yelp and jump back as if burned whenever he accidentally touched one. Gretel told him to get over it, but secretly hoped he wouldn't, if only for comedy's sake.

(And if sometimes she purposely left her underthings around just to see his reaction, or wore a vest over her shirt with a few buttons undone just so he'd strain himself averting his eyes, no one would be the wiser.)

The leggings were a whim, to be honest. Their last good pair of trousers was growing threadbare, to say nothing of the other pairs. The leggings in the clothing merchant's stall were of the same twill as the trousers she'd picked out, but seemed of better construction, cut along the bias for stretch and reinforced at the knees. It had been love even before she tried them on.

Once she starts wearing them, it turns into a full-blown love affair. It's like getting to wear stockings all day, except stockings get saggy and let breezes through, and besides, you have to wear a skirt over them. The leggings hug her legs like a second skin and she feels unencumbered, free, powerful. She probably couldn't actually run for miles or leap over mountains, but she feels like she could. 

And the way they outline the shape of her thighs, her hips, as if she wasn't wearing anything at all, she especially loves that. Hansel does too, judging by the way he looks at her sometimes, and she tingles all over when she catches his eyes on her. Occasionally she imagines him wanting to do more than look, wanting to touch, and the heat she feels isn't shame, though she supposes it should be. 

The leggings are the only thing she'll wear, now, and after she buys her second pair (for laundry days), she becomes an evangelist. She feels she has to justify her enthusiasm somehow, in innocuous, practical terms that no one could question. 

"This wouldn't be an issue if you would just wear leggings," she says, sitting on a rock watching Hansel struggle to tuck his shirt and undershirt into his trousers and do up his belt. They've long since passed that teenage phase of scrupulously turning their backs to get dressed, thank goodness, so she can criticize at will. 

Hansel raises his eyebrows. "Thought I wasn't allowed to wear them."

"Not _mine_ , obviously, you'd stretch them all out of shape. Or break them, probably. But you should get your own."

"I fail to see how this would make my life easier."

"No shirt-tucking and belts, obviously. Easier to get boots on. No extra material to rustle around when you're tracking—" 

"Hey, I don't rustle," Hansel interjects. 

Gretel just arches an eyebrow, because yes, he does, and she doesn't, and if he thinks otherwise he's deluding himself. They finish breaking up camp to the sound of Hansel grumbling under his breath, shoulder their packs and head back to the trail.

"Your turn to break the cobwebs," Gretel, says, and Hansel grumbles louder. He takes the lead anyway, though. He's good like that. 

They camp again that night. They're less than a day out from the village that's sent for them, and there's bound to be an inn on the main road, but they're down to their last few coins and agree that food and bullets are more important than a couple nights sleeping in beds. 

It hadn't been raining last night, though. Gretel hikes up the ridge a bit and finds a small rocky overhang — not quite a cave, but better than nothing. She calls Hansel over and they stow their packs in first, so at least something stays dry. Dinner is stale bread and jerky, since neither of them can get a fire to light. When it's time to sleep, Hansel insists on taking the outer side, even though the area under the rock is barely wide enough for two and he's sure to get wet. 

"You'll catch your death," Gretel points out, but he just shrugs and drapes his coat over his back.

Gretel wedges herself in until the packs are digging in at her stomach and legs, then reaches back and tugs Hansel snug against her back. They fit together like dishes in a cupboard. 

"To clarify, I would rather you didn't catch your death," Gretel says softly, and when he laughs, his breath tickles her neck. 

"And I'd rather there was no such thing as witches. And that I had a million gold pieces and lived in a palace, while we're at it."

She kicks him in the shin. "You know what I mean."

Hansel traps her foot between his own and laughs again. "Go to sleep, Gretel."

A few minutes later, when she's already drifting off, she feels him press a kiss to her hair, and smiles. 

Hansel does indeed catch a cold, but then so does Gretel, and it at the worst it brings runny noses and sore throats, not death. They hole up in the village Alderman's spare bedroom and take turns making each other honey tea until it passes, and when the town council starts making noise about the witch, they go out and take care of her. It was only a minor hedge witch, but the council is grateful enough that they throw in a few gold pieces on top of the agreed price.

"What do you figure the ethics are on luring another witch here so we can do this again?" Hansel asks as they head out of town.

"Completely unethical, don't even think about it."

"Damn you and your morals."

"Oh please, you totally love my morals."

Hansel doesn't reply, just digs the purse out of her pack and counts the silver again. "We'd have enough to buy horses and ride out of here in style if it wasn't for your morals."

Gretel tips her head back and laughs until Hansel noisily puts the purse back and falls a few paces back, and then laughs some more. "I'm picturing you taking care of a horse," she says when she can finally catch breath.

"What, it wouldn't be that bad."

"It would be a disaster," she says, and Hansel shuts up because they both know it's true.

It's not enough coin for horses, but it's enough that they can each get themselves something nice when they come to the first town with a decent market. Hansel goes straight toward the arms dealers and buys a crate of shells for their autocannon, which Gretel tries to talk him out of. It's a business expense, and this is a windfall. Besides, soon they'll need a cart to haul all their equipment around. Gretel is definitely not pulling a cart.

On what to get herself, she's torn. She spends so long at each stall that Hansel goes back to the tavern where they rented a room to wait her out. On her second circuit of the market she spots the leggings in a leatherworker's stall and knows she must have them. The leather is shiny and black, smooth to the touch and as supple as a glove. She lets the shopkeeper talk her into buying a pot of oil to keep them soft and a chamois pouch to keep them in when she's not wearing them, but she can already tell she won't want to take these off. 

She returns to the tavern and finds Hansel sitting at a table in the public room with a grimace on his face and all their bags around his feet. 

"They sold our room to someone else," he says as soon as she's within earshot.

Gretel frowns. They paid good money for that room; it has two big beds that Gretel had personally checked for fleas. "Rude," she says, sitting down.

"Or stupid," Hansel says. "Apparently they double booked it."

"But we were here first! Ugh. Did they give our money back?"

"No, they said they'd give us another room. But I wanted to wait until you got back, in case you wanted to wave your crossbow around a little bit and see if you could change their minds."

Gretel sighs. "Well, let's at least go see what they gave us."

The room is more properly a closet. There's a bed, a washstand, and scant room for anything else. Judicious application of her crossbow yields a partial refund and a free dinner, but not a better room — apparently every other room is occupied — so they grimly haul their things in.

"I was going to have a bath," Hansel says forlornly as they get ready for bed. 

There's scarce enough room to stand once the door is closed and their bags are stacked against the wall, so they dance awkwardly around each other as they change into their night clothes and wash off what road grime they can. Hansel elbows her in the chest not once, but _twice_ , which she truly believes is accidental, but still, retaliation must be had. She trips him with a well-placed foot to the ankle, and tackles him onto the bed, pinning him with his arm behind his back.

"Not letting you up until you say you're sorry," she says into his ear, kneeling harder into his back.

"First of all, _ow_ , and second —" Hansel surges and flips them.

Gretel laughs and scrabbles for purchase on the floor, making herself into a sea of elbows and knees in case he decides to try anything else. "You don't seem very sorry, Hansel."

He opens his mouth to speak and she jabs him in the stomach, gently; twists her wrist out of his hand more forcefully, tackling him to the floor for a moment before he lets out a huff of surprise and tries to knock her off balance. They emerge from the tussle a few minutes later laughing and red-faced.

"What if I do say I'm sorry?" Hansel asks. "Would you want me to kiss it better?"

"Getting you to apologize would be difficult enough," Gretel says. Her stomach flips a little at the image, but there's a dare in his eyes, so she adds, "But since you brought it up, yes, you also have to kiss it better, or else you have to sleep on the floor."

Gretel expects she's won, but something foolhardy sparks in Hansel's eye, and he bows a little and says, "Then I hope both you and your dreadfully wronged tit can accept my most humble apologies." 

He's leaned in during his little speech, and he's looking almost directly up into Gretel's eyes when he braces a hand on her knee and slowly, slowly, leans in. She could swat him on the side of his head, she could stand up, she could laugh and push his face away, but she doesn't. His breath is warm on the exposed skin above the unlaced neckline of her nightshirt, and she's suddenly aware of the way her nipples are forming peaks in the thin material. He's bound to notice if she doesn't push him away, he's probably already noticed — 

She doesn't push him away, and in the next breath his lips touch the skin under her collarbone, then skate over her nightshirt until his mouth is just over the swell of her breast. He presses a hot, lingering kiss there, and a shiver of warmth goes through her. She reaches up to pull him away or drag him in for more, she doesn't know, but all she ends up doing his stroking his hair as he turns his head to the side and rests his cheek over her heart.

"Better?"

She hums, not exactly trusting herself with words. 

"Please don't make me sleep on the floor," Hansel whispers.

"Oh, fine," she says, as if there was ever any question. She pats Hansel's head one last time, fondly, though the mood is broken, and hauls herself up. 

Hansel takes a remarkably long time washing his face, but not enough that Gretel's asleep when he climbs into bed. There's about a foot of distance between them, which seems impossible given the width of the bed. Gretel sighs and rolls onto her side, wraps an arm around Hansel's waist and buries her nose in the crook of his neck. The tension leaves him almost immediately and he relaxes against the length of Gretel's body until they're as close as two spoons in a drawer. 

Still, the dare seems to have made Hansel skittish around her. She's so taken with her new leggings that she doesn't notice, the first day, and so exhausted from the miles walked that she finds nothing odd in spreading their bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire and falling asleep immediately the first night, but on the second day she notices that he's keeping his distance from her. They still talk, but he doesn't touch her, doesn't sleep next to her, insist on taking the lead whenever they walk. It's fine, he's obviously taking space to get over...whatever that was. They spend nearly every moment in each other's company; this is far from the first time one of them has gotten embarrassed and needed space. 

It's only, if she thinks about it, Gretel's pretty sure she's the one who should be taking space. She avoids thinking about it. 

After a few weeks, Gretel begins to wonder if maybe it could be the new leggings. She's not blind; she can see how they look on her. It's one of the things she loves about them — that, and the way they fit her like a second skin, make her feel like all her muscles are coiled and ready to spring. Strong, fast. She loves the way the black leather transforms her into something graceful and deadly. So sure, Hansel might be having a hard time with the shape of her ass, but it's not a hypothesis she's ready to test. 

They sleep on opposite sides of the fire now, but sound still carries. Somehow Hansel has never perfected the art of getting himself off quietly — something Gretel would be happy to teach him, except he's slept through all of her demonstrations — and he's jacking off more than ever now. She waits until his breathing slows and then wonders if it really could be her he thinks about. If he's afraid that if he touches her he might give himself away, if he remembers that one kiss and imagines going further, pushing her shirt up and exploring over bare skin, letting his hands roam instead of keeping them balled up in his lap — and fuck, she's done it to herself now, because even if he's not thinking about it, now she is. 

They stay out of each other's space by mutual unspoken agreement after that, although sometimes when she's looking particularly fantastic, she'll cut in front of Hansel and let him stare for a while. Or stumble over things because he refused to look, maybe, it's not like she ever glances back to check.

The thing about their weird unspoken standoff, though, is that she misses him. It's not like she's worried she'll lose him, or anything half as silly as that. She's courted several lads and a lass in her time, and in every town there seems to be a woman bent on following Hansel around, but nothing ever sticks. Maybe it's because they're constantly on the move, or that their unusual childhood makes them unfit for normal human companionship, but Gretel is confident in the knowledge that Hansel will always be her brother. This will end, but she'd rather it end sooner than later. 

It takes four witches killed and another on the way before things start to thaw. The fifth witch has eluded their capture for days, through countless miles of dense forest, but finally they've found an abandoned cottage that might be her lair. Wary of scaring her off once more, Gretel suggests they set up the autocannon on the lip of the ravine overlooking the cottage and wait her out. If this is her lair, she'll return eventually, and then she's theirs. Hansel seems anxious, but agrees, and they set in to wait. 

To Gretel's surprise, after he finishes loading the gun, Hansel sits down right next to her, so close their knees are almost touching. Hours pass and the angle of the sun changes; they crouch and then sprawl on their stomachs to avoid being seen if anyone's in the house. At one point, Hansel grunts wordlessly and slings his leg over one of Gretel's, staring straight forward through the whole operation as if his leg was acting of its own accord. Gretel thinks she can see the hint of a smile on his face, though, and she feels all the tension of this absurdly long hunt bleed out of her into the cool ground. She squeezes Hansel's foot between her own, and smiles her own tiny smile. 

"Was it weird to you?" she asks, breaking the silence what feels like hours later. There's been no movement from the house, the sunlight is now slanting horizon-golden though the leaves.

"Hmm?"

"That time. With the — kissing. You know."

Hansel's brows draw together. "I thought we weren't going to talk about it."

"Well, now we are, because I want to. Was it weird?"

"Depends on what you mean by weird, I guess."

Gretel sighs heavily and rolls her eyes. "Maybe I'm just tired of it being this huge thing between us. If it isn't the kissing thing, what is it?"

Hansel stays silent for a long while, but things still feel more loose and easy between them than they have in a long time, and the sun is warm on Gretel's face. She lets him think. 

"It was weird," Hansel says, slowly. "And maybe I was afraid it would happen again before I figured out whether it was bad weird or good, so I just kind of....tried to make sure it wouldn't happen."

"Well, that's noble but extremely stupid —" Gretel starts and then she catches a movement out of the corner of her eye and she was springing to her feet, aiming at a witch who was _suddenly no longer there_ , what the fuck. 

She whirls around in time to see the witch tackling Hansel over the side of the ravine, and neither the autocannon nor her crossbow are any use against a flailing tangle of limbs and skirts. There's nothing to do but bound down the slope after them. When she gets to the bottom, Hansel's well on his way to getting beaten unconscious by the witch. Gretel ducks under a pretty nasty-looking spell just as Hansel gets a good punch in, and together they manage to finish the job. 

It's dark in the ravine, and anyway, the sun has set by the time they light the pyre, so Gretel dresses Hansel's wounds by the light of the fire. 

"If you wouldn't jump down ravines, this wouldn't happen," Gretel says.

Hansel splutters. "I was _pushed_!"

"Point stands." Hansel's whole body is a map of bruises and scrapes — nothing life-threatening, but he'll be sore no matter which way he lies for a few nights. Gretel, on the other hand, only has a scratch on her face from a low-hanging branch she ran into on her way down the slope. 

There's a spring in back of the witch's cottage, and Gretel salvages a bowl and a rag that don't look like they were used for anything too demonic, and sets to work sponging off Hansel's wounds.

"How did you manage to get dirt in all these," she wonders out loud after a while. "You were wearing a shirt."

Hansel shrugs and then winces. "Shirt rode up, I guess. Lots of rocks."

Gretel finishes cleaning out a scrape on his shoulder and smooths salve from their first aid kit over it as gently as she can. Impulsively, she bends down and presses a quick kiss to the unharmed skin next to it. "Better?"

Hansel shivers all over. "Little bit."

One by one, Gretel rinses the wounds on Hansel's back and applies salve. She kisses each one, and Hansel shivers every time. His breathing is getting a little ragged by the time she moves on to his arms and hands. His chest and stomach are unhurt, she notes, as she crosses to do his other arm, and she finds herself thinking that soon she'll run out of warm skin to kiss. She cleans the last scrape on Hansel's shoulder, and she can hear his breath hitch when her mouth lingers there. After as long as she can stand without moving, without doing something monumentally stupid, she draws back and meets his eyes only to find that he's been watching her. For a moment, it seems like anything is possible. All she would have to do is tip her face up just a little, and his face is red and his eyes are bright, and they would be — but he breaks eye contact after a second, and nothing happens.

Tempted as she is to stay and help him with the rest, she gets him some clean water and leaves him alone to bathe his lower half himself. When she returns from going through the witch's supplies for something useful, Hansel is already in clean clothes, asleep face down on his bed roll. She unrolls her own bedroll next to his, but far enough she won't accidentally roll over and jostle him in the night. 

Things go back to normal after that, more or less. Stealing kisses becomes a constant dare between them, and sometimes Gretel worries she won't be able to stop herself from leaning over to Hansel and making out with him long and slow, claiming that teasing mouth for her own. Sometimes she catches Hansel's eyes on her and thinks that he must be stopping himself from doing the very same thing.

The spring slowly warms into summer, and after one particularly hot day when the packs became an oppressive burden, they break down and buy a cart. It's secondhand from a farmer they pass on the way to the river, so they get a pretty good price.

"We should have done this so much earlier," Hansel groans, unloading his pack, jacket, bedroll, and weapons in to the cart.

"It is pretty amazing," Gretel agrees. She circles around and nuzzles Hansel's newly-exposed nape, dropping a kiss there and dashing off before he can get her back.

"Hey! No fair leaving me with the cart," Hansel shouts, but still pulls it down the path after her and only abandons it once they reach a tall shade tree by the river. 

Gretel must let her guard down when they go to set fishing lines for supper, because he manages to sneak a kiss onto the pad of her thumb when she passes him a pole and another on her shoulder when she's reeling a fish in. Strategically, if they were keeping score, she'd keep well away from him, be always on the lookout, and maybe it makes her a poor sport, but his mouth on her skin feels like winning.

It's still too hot out by nightfall to sleep under blankets, which makes for a cushier mattress, but not too hot to sleep with their bedrolls touching and their legs tangled together. 

In the middle of the night, Gretel wakes, too hot on one side, too cold on the other. The source of the heat is apparent when she becomes aware of Hansel half draped over her, snoring softly into her ear. She tries to ease slowly from lying on her stomach to lying on her back, but she hears Hansel's breathing shift into wakefulness and gives up. She lies staring at the stars for some time, waiting for sleep, but with Hansel laying wakeful beside her, she doubts it will come soon. 

At some point he shifts and lays his head on her shoulder again, and she idly strokes his hair. There's a part of her — maybe all of her, hell — that wants Hansel to be closer, wants to be able to kiss him without running away, wants to know that there won't be another month of silence if they break the rules of this new game. 

She cards her hand through his hair and watches the stars, and when he grumbles, "Arm asleep, ow," she follows him as he rolls over and slots her head on his shoulder, her bent leg under his knee. Her hand is resting on his chest and he's got his arm around her waist and she can feel the words bubbling up to her mouth, she wants — 

But a snore cuts her off, and she shuts her mouth with a clack. Next time, though. Next time she knows what she wants to say, and she won't let it get away from her.

+

They're hiking up a hill outside a town where they killed a witch and then nearly got killed in return by an overzealous mob who had expected a public execution. The mob had chased them all the way down main street but not more than a few yards outside the city gates, and they'd been paid half in advance, so all's well that ends well. Gretel's body is singing with the ache of a fight well fought and she and Hansel keep laughing and stumbling into each other and almost letting go of the cart. 

Gretel bumps shoulders with Hansel and he beams over at her and suddenly it's just too much. She fists her hand in his collar and brings him so close that their faces bump together, grinning and dusty. She kisses the corner of his mouth and when he turns his face hungrily toward hers, kisses him full on, leaning into him until he lets go of the cart and they stagger off the road. Hansel catches himself on a tree and leans back against it, letting Gretel rest her weight on him. 

She could stand here kissing him forever, she thinks, with her hands cupped around his face and his arms around her waist. Eventually her hands drift down Hansel's neck to follow his collar down to where it laces at his throat, and she pauses.

"Can we just...?"

Hansel kisses her again, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, I think we can."

She giggles, then tries to look stern. "You don't even know what I was going to ask, you didn't let me finish."

"You didn't mean this? What we're doing? We've always made our own fortunes, so I don't see why we can't just do this."

"Oh. That was pretty much what I was going to say, yeah," she says, and then not much talking happens while she unlaces Hansel's shirt as far as it will go — not far enough — and explores his jaw and throat and the top five inches of his chest with her mouth and fingers. 

"One other thing," she says after a long while. Hansel has one hand up her shirt, a row of impressive bruises up the side of his neck, and looks rather wrecked. He stops the distracting thing he's doing with his thumb, though, and looks at her questioningly. "How much of this had to do with my leggings?"

Hansel groans and laughs a little. "Your leather ones? If you hadn't put those on that morning, I might never have put words to what I wanted. I was well on my way to forgetting, but then I saw you in those and it was plain as day."

Gretel smiles, remembering. "What was?"

"What what," he asks after a while, and his hand skims down her side to rest on the hem of her leggings. 

She melts into him a bit more. "What was plain as day?" 

"That I wanted to get into your pants, never mind you're my sister. Maybe even because you are." 

She shivers, and a throb of heat goes through her groin. "Yeah, I — me too."

They fall silent for a time, too wrapped up in each other for words, until Hansel pulls back fractionally and makes a frustrated noise.

"I — damn, how do you get these things on?" His fingertips are trapped between her skin and the leather of his leggings, as if he wants to slip inside but his knuckles won't fit past the waistband.

Gretel nips at one of her marks on his neck and feels him shudder beneath her. "Lots of laces," she says, then laughs. She tries to bury it in Hansel's chest, but it comes bubbling out.

"It's not that funny," Hansel says.

"I'm just thinking about your phrasing," Gretel says when she can catch her breath. "All that time thinking about getting in my pants. Do you think it's cheating if we unlace them?"

"It's just a phrase," Hansel says, and she can hear the amusement in his voice. "We can do whatever we want."


End file.
